


Lemming Sized

by Sombraline



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asgardian Tony Stark, First Meetings, Gen, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sombraline/pseuds/Sombraline
Summary: “And... what exactly would I be doing for you?”“Regicide."Tony of Asgard sneaked in Jötunheim hoping to get his hand on rare resources and go back home unnoticed. Instead, he met the smallest giant in the history of giants.Loki sneaked upon a foolish Asgardian trespassing on his clan's territory hoping to kick his butt and be rewarded for his capture. Instead, he found an opportunity he had never expected.
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 124





	Lemming Sized

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hypnotically](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnotically/gifts).



> Four years ago, my friend @hypnotically gifted me with this wonderful fanart. Weeks ago, an anonymous tumblr user asked if there was fic to go with the art. Being busy with a dozen far more urgent tasks, I immediately rose to the occasion and said, "but of course!"
> 
> Honestly, I'm just grateful that this fic did not grow legs and turn into a multichapter monstrosity. But it was also a lot of fun. 
> 
> Oh, and, see if you can spot the Good Omens + Journey Into Mystery reference!

Here is a fun story :

Once upon a time, the two proudest, mightiest races of Yggdrasil waged war against one another. It went on for so long that it was near impossible to tell who had actually started it, let alone for any living being to imagine a time when Frost Giants and Asgardians were allies had actually existed. This is not the fun part, except for a few cosmic beings known for their dark sense of humor.

No matter the reasons of the fighting, and no matter the depth of the scars it left; eventually the war ended, when both realms started running out of blood to shed. Victory went to Asgard, although it could have gone to Jötunheim instead. King Odin lost an eye in the final battle. Maybe as revenge, he left with Jötunheim's heart, knowing fully well that, without it, the realm of ice would melt and perish. Odin was not in a mood for mercy, nursing an empty eyesocket. He told himself that once the dust was settled and Laufey was replaced by a less stubborn king, it would still be time to discuss returning the Casket of Ancient Winters, for a price. Anyway, Jötunheim was so weakened now it would have been unable to pay any decent tribute to the victorious realm.

Again, this is not the fun bit. Political decisions are as cold as they are complex. A lot of giants died from malnutrition and fell gravely ill from the heatwaves that followed the loss of the Casket, and Odin felt no guilt for them. A good king had to be able to pin everything on the enemy and wash their hands off it, as far as he was concerned. There really isn't a lot of laughters to be had about any of that.

Years passed and Laufey did lose his throne. Jötunheim melted little by little and its people adapted as well as it could. What had once been a court became a privileged territory. What had been cities were ruins, with clans battling one another for the best hunting trails and stable crops. The giants became nomadic again as their number fell, then stabilized. It was remarkable, in a way, how well most of the survivors took to the change, going on to eat, sleep, hunt, talk, tell stories, make art, have babies. Life is stubborn that way. People underestimate their ability to look at the end of the world, shake their head, and move on. Maybe all their friends were dead, and maybe Jötunheim would never be the same, but the baby was still going to be hungry later, and snow yams wouldn't dig themselves up. Plus Gulda was not going to share his finds, and asking Frelsi was always annoying. They still had to go on.

King Odin of Asgard, meanwhile, moving on to things that were not warmongering and destruction, had a son, and then another one. This would have been a great source of joy to him, a blessing from the Norns as well as a proof of his manly qualities, if not for the fact that one of the boys had his mother's golden hair, and the other had his mother's black hair. One of the women was queen, and the other was not; and both children were born on the same day, leaving it to question which was the oldest. It was unquestionably a recipe for disaster.

So Odin, wise and kingly, made his choice: the boy that was not his heir had to disappear, for everyone's sake. The woman who was his mother wailed as women will, fighting the soldiers who were tasked with retrieving the young bastard. Odin had ordered the men to be careful not to hurt her, but she fought as any bear mother would have for her young, digging claws and teeth into flesh. Odin watched this with concern. His mistress, Jörd, had always been on the unstable side. He quietly tasked his most trusted generals with the mission of sending her on a nice, peaceful retirement, very far from the castle.

Now, for the fun bit. There is a trick that can be played with playing cards, peas under cups or babies in cribs, which is very hard to follow. Good and bad people have been fooled indistinctly, throughout history, by young street performers with yellow hoodies and magic in their hands as well as confused nuns trying to help. It happens in the best families. The point is not to follow everything that made this twist of fate possible, nor to determine with certainty if it truly was fate, or if someone purposefully caused the end result. The point is the result itself.

Odin planned to hold on to Queen Frigga's child, which we will call Baby A, who had dark hair and curious eyes, and who would make for a very remarkable portrait. He wanted to get rid of Jörd's baby, which we will refer to as Baby B, and who had soft blond hair and sucked his thumb in the most adorable way. Baby B would easily have disappeared in any Asgardian family, looking much like the common folk of the country, but Odin felt uneasy about keeping a potential threat to the throne grow up in proximity to said throne. Still, it would have been difficult to kill the baby without having at least a bit of issues of conscience. He didn't want such hard to justify blood on his hands, but he also didn't want to let Baby B live.

He decided, after a few careful minutes of consideration, that his best option was to send Baby B off realm. Afterall, maybe he would thrive and be well taken care off, there; who knew? He didn't. He could have chosen Alfheim or Midgard, and make those odds go up. He chose to be safe, and sent the baby to Jötunheim.

The joke -are you paying attention, really? This is the interesting part- the joke was that Odin's orders were misunderstood, or miscarried. His royal heir, Baby A, the fruit of Frigga's womb, was dropped unceremoniously in Jötunheim's snow, with nothing but a blanket and a disguise spell on his yet fragile skin. And Baby B, the disposable, blond child of the banished mistress slept through destiny as he went from arms to arms and cribs to cribs, and, in the end, remained in Asgard.

This is already very funny, because anything that goes against Odin's plans usually is. The Norns don't appreciate anyone who thinks themselves above fate and they enjoy poking fun at them. It was funny, although not for Frigga, who had to change her hair color both on her head and in everybody's memories of her, and who understood well enough that the child she was given to name was not in fact hers, but funny enough for anyone who could appreciate the way Odin raged without being able to figure out who was to blame for the mistake.

But it gets better: Baby A, meant to die in the snow and pass as an abandoned giant offspring to anyone who asked, did not follow the plan, either. The heir to the throne of Asgard started crying, not long after being abandoned, as he woke to the icy wind lashing his soft little cheeks and howling in his ears. As babies will, he wailed desperately with all the air his small lungs could hold. And it should have been his final action, because Jötunheim was big and empty and this particular mountainside was not frequently passed through. But Baby A, nonetheless, was heard.

The Jötun who found Baby A was a young gatherer, neither very tall or very strong. Another strike of luck, as a more impressive giant might have stepped on the baby without even noticing it. He was called Farbauti and there was nothing very special about him. He was no warrior, didn't cook very well, and had never learned any craft that was likely to make him useful to his tribe. The one thing Farbauti was good at, in fact, was telling stories.

Lately, though, his tales had lost most of their spirit. The clan had stopped asking him to entertain them around the meal or before bedtime anymore; they knew that the skald's stories would be told without any new twist or joke. Farbauti was indeed in no mood to jest or invent. He had been wounded in a fight between clans, and had lost both of his horns and most of the sight of his left eye. The damage was mostly aesthetical, but the young skald, once praised for his beauty, had felt everything falling to pieces in his own life as it had in his country. He had not been of those who had moved on easily.

Farbauti had never given much of a thought to being a parent. He had never even had a true partner to call his own. His clan was full of friends, but friends like siblings, too familiar and too annoying to be loved in such a way, and there were few exchanges with other tribes these days. Since his wound, he had never even felt alive enough to think of the future and regret this.

And yet, looking at the small thing crying in the snow, Farbauti felt something thawing his heart's ice. He crouched down, for he had to. The baby was no bigger than his closed fist. Evidently he had been left to die for being so small, so unlikely to be worth the resources needed to keep him alive. Perhaps it would even be mercy to let the Winter take him back, when evidently he could never thrive in Jötunheim's harsh climate. But Farbauti realized that it would be truly sad, for the screaming baby to go quiet. Tears rose to his eyes for the first time in many moons. He gathered the child with careful fingers, and brought it to his chest very delicately, for fear of crushing him.

“Hello, little one?” He asked.

Baby A did not respond, having not yet been introduced to the art of conversation. It would not be very long, though, not with the mother who had just found him. He cried still, but it was fading, exhaustion and dehydratation turning the wails into choked little sobs. Farbauti stroked his little back with the tip of his fingers. He thought his clan would not appreciate one more mouth to feed. But he thought that he would enjoy reinventing his stories again, to tell them in a new, charming, soft light to his little. He thought that, ugly as he now was, perhaps he would be able to feel beautiful if this fragile baby smiled at him.

“Loki,” he decided, shielding the baby with his hand as the wind rose. And his decision made, he started walking back toward camp, miles away from there, with the little one as his most successful harvest in a long time.

Baby B, in the meantime, was craddled to the breast of his mother-not-mother. Frigga resented her husband, true, but there had been little warmth in her heart for him yet. Though she felt dread, though she felt rage and betrayal, the Queen did not once turn her anger to the little blond boy she would now call her boy. And while her own baby, unbeknowst to her, was called after fire, she supported the sleepy head of Baby B with her head and decided that he would wear a strong name, a good name, to make him better than the twisted branch that was his father. Odin was a clawed creature who left marks on everything he touched, but her boy, she decided, for she would take care of this child as fiercely as if he were her own, would be as strong as he would be noble, striking mighty and true, like thunder.

“Thor,” she murmured to the baby's temple, and kissed it gently with all the warmth of her hurt.

And so the bastard of King Odin was raised as prince heir. But what's even better? Oh, listen well, this is really hilarious. Farbauti brought his little wildfire home, sure enough, and it's true that Farbauti was an unimportant storyteller, a Jötun without a family name. It's true that Baby A would have been truly lost to history in his new mother's arms. But Jötuns do not only take the name of their parent. They are a people of clans and houses.

Oh, yes. Little baby Loki, heir to Asgard, was brought home to Laufey, no longer king sure, but chief of a reasonably thriving clan. And though he growled and scoffed at Farbauti's foolishness, and though there was no warmth in his red eyes as he looked at the tiny baby, still, still, Laufey of Jötunheim allowed Loki to stay. He figured he could hold it over Farbauti's head if the gatherer started dragging his feet again, and make him share his own meals with the child.

Neither kings had any idea of it, but Odin's son entered Laufey's house as nothing more than a pitiful runt, taken with charity and half a thought that he would die before the season ended anyway.

Funny, right? Can you imagine how shocked both would have been? Can you imagine the outrage they would feel, the horror that would for the first time unite them? And little Loki? What an incredible destiny his first day of life had sketched ahead of him! What a world of possibility, to be the son of two monsters and yet of none, to be a child of two mighty, enemy worlds. What could the odd twists of fate lead to? For Asgard? For Jötunheim? For the future of Yggdrasil and its broken worlds? Never in the history of the World-Tree had such a small being held the potential to change everything, all by his birth and name. It could have been incredible.

Oh -could, yes. This is a fun story, remember? An anecdote, as you might call it. Loki could have been the wildfire to burn the Nine Realms into ashes, or he could have united everyone, or anything else. Who knows? This isn't Asgard or Jötunheim's story. It's his.

* * *

Tony of Asgard was not the son of a king, nor was he abandonned, adopted, or mistaken for another. Tony was the son of his father, plain and boring that way.

He did not complain, though. Not too much, anyway. He had inherited a sum of gold that meant he never would have to work a day in his life, and a florishing business in case he wanted to anyway. What was a terrible reputation, years of neglect and the realization he was only rich thanks to hundreds of people killing one another with his creations, in exchange for a comfortable life?

Tony did not really enjoy talking about his early adult life. Everything that had happened between Howard's death and his decision to turn the family business around was mostly bad memories and regrets. But of course, it was all everybody ever wanted to talk about, so he just had to accept that he would not get what he wanted, and embrace the discomfort.

His father's forges had been nicknamed that of the Dragon. Returning from his captivity at the hands of ambitious warlords in torn Svartalfheim, Tony had decided to officially rename it the Phoenix's. It still suggested fire, he shrugged when people asked at the local tavern, and he really just wanted to get a new start, you know? No need to clarify that he felt he had needed to be burned alive to have the guts to be something else than his father's heir. Talking about symbolics always made for awkward conversations.

He had changed the forge with more than a new coat of paint and sign, too. It had not been as easy as he had let the world believe. It turned out his personal bank account was not the only one feeling the effect of his decision not to sell weapons anymore. More betrayal and more attempts to his life welcomed him home. But Tony could not pride himself on many things, by that point, and he had decided he would be stubborn in this even if it killed him. He still had the scars to prove it, but in a few weeks, he had managed to turn his business around. It did not make him feel any less of a monster, unfortunately. But it had the unexpected benefit of making him realize he really enjoyed tinkering in his workshop, when the endgame wasn't to craft new clever killing machines.

The one problem with his new interests was resources. Getting his hand on rare metals had been easy enough when buyers everywhere were ready to put in a good word or a good threat with any suppliers; now that he had told all those buyers to kindly never contact him again, a lot of doors had closed themselves. He usually managed to obtain most of everything by paying the strong price, if more slowly than before; but there were the occasional rare matter that even he couldn't buy without putting himself out of business for good. And in those cases, there wasn't much choice other than to go to the source by himself.

That was what brought him to Jötunheim, obviously. If he had not been absolutely sure that he needed Green Ice straight from the Winter Realm to get the combustion in his latest high-speed propulsors slowing down to the right rate, he would have gone somewhere else as his first choice. Also second, third, and any other possible choice. Jötunheim was not a dream destination in any way.

Tony had prepared as best as he could: his new insulated armor was working pretty well so far, keeping him from freezing to death in minutes. Though his hands and face were exposed to the cold air, small mechanism sewn into his clothes were warming him up, while allowing him to keep the closest look-out possible on any change in temperature which would announce a storm or a break in the glaciers beneath his feet. It was still not exactly comfortable, but it worked.

He knew the few idiots like him who ventured into the Frozen Realm usually wore some sort of camouflage, hoping to disappear into the snow and to go unnoticed by any locals. He had decided against. His blood-red cape caught in the wind and pulled him back every now and then, its weight catching in the snow-heavy air around him. It was not discreet, but discreet was not Tony Stark. He liked his chance of escaping better if he was noticed than if something stepped on him on accident; plus, he had some standards.

He had left his ship in a crevice, as close as he dared to the more unstable territories he was now walking on. The glaciers around him were of an unreal shade of green-blue, perfectly opaque ice, forming a valley that made him feel like he was walking the empty bed of a gigantic river. Everything seemed frozen solid enough, but he knew better than to trust blindly in appearances. A lot of ice here had melted in the summer and frozen again in the last month with the return of the colder season, but the ground had shifted and broken in several places where water had shifted the once immobile structures of ice.

The change in weather was worrisome for Jötunheim, but meant great opportunities. Tony expected that the Green Ice he needed, a delicate mineral forming thin, fragile leaves, would be easier to obtain here than anywhere he would need to dig to get it to the surface, risking to destroy the material in the process. Of course, the problem with this reasoning was that others were just as likely as he to come looking for easy-to-grab resources uncovered by the weather. Tony had already watched with dread and awe as a creature resembling a hedgehog, but bigger than his entire _house_ had pattered past him, sniffing out the trail of something that had thankfully not been him. He had waited for the icy spikes of the animal's butt to disappear in the distance before going on, following his home-made detector with increased excitation and nervosity.

Everything in Jötunheim was out of proportion. As far as Tony knew, the smallest animal in the native fauna was the snow lemming, and even those were as tall as his waist. It was dizzying to even consider how tiny he was in comparison to anything who lived here; though he was a decent fighter, he had no desire to try his hand at such an unfair fight.

Which was why he had created his prototype of a detector with two distinctive features: first, to locate the small radiations emitted by Green Ice; then, to warn him of any big, moving, ice-cold being. He had calibrated the system not to warn him of anything as small or smaller than himself, as movements of water beneath his feet would have raised unnecessary alarms and he didn't expect a significative fight from a lemming anyway. He thought he was pretty damn clever for that, and was pleased to watch the frost hedgehog disappear outside of his radar as he progressed near an ice deposit. Jötunheim was dangerous, sure, but it wasn't prepared for geniuses like Tony Stark.

His friends at home -Happy, Fandral, Pepper- were ever ready to tell him his self-confidence would get him killed. He usually figured they could be excused because they had no idea how his brain actually worked to fix problems before they even happened. On this specific day, though, he had to reconsider.

To be fair, it wasn't a lemming. But -yeah. Maybe sometimes even he failed to plan for some things.

He wasn't half a hundred paces away from his goal when something dark moved in the corner of his eye. He spun on his heels, but the thing was nowhere to be seen; his heart raced in his chest, even as he reminded himself that whatever was there was too small to be a threat. Then, as though having heard and resented that very thought, something slammed heavily into his back and sent him flying face first into the snow. His scream of surprise was muffled by the immediate shock of _cold cold cold_ and he rolled on his back with as much urge to get away from the cold as to face his attacker.

To say he was shock was an understatement. He had expected some sort of animal. Instead, he stared at -a man? The stranger was hardly taller than Tony himself, and at least some of his height was the result of the golden... horns? that seemed to sprout from his black hair like an almost organic crown. His shoulders were covered by an heavy fur coat, and a green cape not unlike Tony's own was flying behind him as he stood severely against the wind. He held his hands up in a gesture that was far less defensive than threatening, even though they were empty.

“What,” he said, and his voice was fittingly icy, “are you doing here?”

Tony sat in the snow, feeling his butt slowly freezing through his pants, yet too shocked to get up. He stared.

“I'll do you one better,” he blurted out before he could decide if it was a wise course of action. “What _are_ you?”

Red eyes turned to blood-covered slits and the man's face contorted with anger. But Tony thought his question was as legitimate as it was in genuine need of an answer. He had no word for the creature standing in front of him, nor any memory of something like him ever being discussed around him.

The man -because, standing on both legs, actually able to talk, he was going to rule out the animal kingdom, and he sounded masculine enough, Tony thought- looked every bit like a Jötun was supposed to. His skin was the deep cobalt blue of the ice people's, with delicate, barely-there silver lines reflecting light where his face was obscured. The red eyes were a good hint, too, and the fact that the man's chest seemed mostly bare underneath his fur coat. But -well, he wore a _coat_ , and a cape, and pants, too, and -Tony risked a look down- no, he was barefoot in the snow, which went in the Frost Giant direction. But Jötnar never wore anything more than loinclothes or skirts, did they? They never had _hair_ either, and this guy had a remarkable mane of jet-black, shoulder-lenght hair.

And, most importantly: giants were typically gigantic. This one? Was definitely on the snow lemming end of the scale.

“You are in no place to ask questions,” the stranger said, his voice a low growl. “I will not ask again. What are you doing in Jötunheim, Asgardian?”

His left hand started to glow with bright green flames, reminding Tony that the Jötun had thrown him to the ground as start to their conversation. It didn't stop him from adding that point to the increasingly confusing chart: Jötuns typically didn't do _magic_. When they did, it usually was runework and word-magic. But fire? Frost Giants did _not_ play with fire.

“You know, it's no wonder you guys never get any visitors if that's the way you greet everyone,” he replied, putting a hand on his short sword's pommel and slowly getting to his feet when the Jötun seemed to allow it. He kept squinting at Tony impatiently, though, evidently not ready to let go of the matter. “Look, I'm not invading. I'm just a friendly Aesir, passing by, admiring the view.”

“The view.” The flames seemed to fade a little bit, but it was unclear if the Jötun was convinced or incredulous.

“Yeah. The glaciers, the snow, the, uh, ice. We don't have a lot of that in Asgardia.”

“Your King forbids travel between our Realms. Mine demands we bring him the head of any trespasser.”

“Jötunheim doesn't have a king.” The other squinted a little harder. Tony swallowed, ready to unsheathe his sword at any moment, but wondering if this conversation could remain civilized despite the head-cutting remark. “Uh, does it?”

“Laufey remains Lord of the North and King of all Frost Giants, no matter what Odin Allfather thinks of it.”

“So you _are_ a Frost Giant! Or, uh, are you another specie? Frost Dwarf? Halfling? Or are you a baby, or... You know what, that's your business. I guess it's not sensible to ask? I didn't mean to be rude. Some of my best friends are half-bloods, I should know better than to ask that kind of things the first time we meet.” He glanced at the now raging fire engulfing the better part of the man's arm in emerald flames. “Look, uh, there really is no need to chop of my head, or burn me to death. Odin doesn't know I'm here. Laufey doesn't need to know either. I'm just gonna grab what I came here for, go back the way I came, alright?”

“What you came for,” the stranger repeated icily. “A thief, then, as all your people are. Your skull will make for a good offering to the king.”

“Hey- no!”

Tony unsheated his sword -too slow. He cursed as he saw the Jötun's hand locking on his wrist; not the one covered in flames, he raised that one like he was planning to throw it into Tony's face. The effect, he knew, would be near the same. Everybody knew the mere touch of a Frost Giant could be so mercilessly cold as to permanently disable any limb touched by it, if they so chose, and the way the long blue fingers squeezed around his arm, making his armor freeze and break, was confirmation enough for him.

Tony cursed. Oh, if it was going to be like that, then he was going to do his part. He had come here mentally prepared to fight an actual giant -and this tiny thing thought he was going to beat him? Oh, Hel no.

Feeling the biting cold getting closer to his skin, he reacted quickly. He threw his sword from his right hand to the left, enjoyed the way the other man's red eyes widened, and thrust. The Jötun squirmed out of the way with a startled cry -but did not let go of his grip. Tony had just the time to parry his magic hand before he could shove it in his face, and he was startled to feel the strenght with which he pushed back on his sword. _Wait, he's kicking my ass_?

He fell the armor around his wrist cracking and shrinking. He try to pull himself free, but the Jötun held, and the burnt leather fell, exposing his skin to the icy winds. Tony gritted his teeth and tried to brace himself for the upcoming pain as he felt the grip of the Jötun tightening on his arm, so cold his brain did not register it at first. He couldn't help himself, tearing his eyes from the green fire to look at the man's free hand, waiting in horror to see his flesh burn and break as the leather had.

It was not what happened.

He had the time to wonder if this was something worse, and to question what the hell could be worse than to lose his right arm to frostburn, before the Jötun's face twisted in confusion. He looked at Tony's wrist and at his own hand with the most puzzled, almost disgusted look, making it clear he had not expected _this_ , either.

Instead of Tony's flesh turning blue, then grey, then dead, it was the stranger's hand that changed colors. It was deep blue; it became silverish, then white, and, under their startled look, took the same pink-ish tone as Tony's. It was like watching watercolor staining paper, a little at the time, spreading from beneath his fingers to the top of his hand.

“What in Niffleheim,” the Jötun breathed out, definitely looking somewhat horrified.

What else? It wasn't burning at all. It felt cold, and that was that.

Tony had no idea at all what was happening, but he knew he wasn't in any good position if this somehow pissed the giant off even more. He took no chance. Tearing his sword from the Jötun's grip while he was too startled to stop him, he sent his knee up between his thighs -both unhappy to resort to this and pretty glad he had met the one pant-bearing Frost Giant in all of Jötunheim. A startled cry escaped the other's mouth. His green fire went out and he released Tony's arm, both his hands automatically moving to his groin as he yelped something that Tony just knew was a Jötun curse.

He moved back carefully, holding his sword up and watching the giant warily. He probably should have run while he still could, but found himself frozen, unwilling to leave without his Green Ice. His hesitation cost him.

The Jötun's face contorted from pain to anger, and Tony was thrown back a dozen paces by a blast of magic. He landed hard against a curve in the walls of ice and heard an awful _crack_. He was still trying to determine what part of him had been broken so awfully when he felt the ground beneath him shifting.

He cursed, pushing himself to his feet and jumping away from the crevice in the ice just a few instants before it could swallow him. The Jötun was standing more or less straight again, his green magic burning once more.

“This really doesn't have to go that way,” Tony tried.

He didn't hope much from it, and he wasn't surprised. The Jötun showed teeth and lunged at him. Tony avoided the burn of his magic, but was startled by a blade of ice flashing just short of his exposed throat. The Jötun was moving too fast, anger and hurry making his movements impossible to follow.

Well, Tony was a fighter too, and he was good at acting quickly on new knowledge. He grabbed the Jötun by the wrist to block his dagger as it aimed for his face once more. The other fought him -but Tony had calculated for his strenght this time. He shoved him back hard, then pulled with all his strenght, bending at the knee. The Jötun was thrown gracelessly behind him, getting a taste of his own of being thrown in the snow. Tony quickly got up and gave him some distance, his sword once more between them.

“Would you maybe consider making a deal?”

The Jötun glared at him so furiously, Tony half expected him to charge again. But, after a tense few seconds, the other let his head fall back in the snow, cursing below his breath. When he pushed on his hands and stood to his feet, it was with deliberately slow motions. He brushed the snow off his cape, glared at Tony with something like suspicion, and then seemed to lose a battle of wills.

“What have you done to me?”

Tony frowned. He suspected the Jötun did not mean his little bout of Dwarvish Martial Arts for Beginners (“Great for someone as small as you”, the bearded woman had ensured back then, and Tony had had no cause to deny it since). His eyes travelled to the blue, tense hands the giant held in front of him like they had been injured.

“So, that wasn't on purpose?” He asked. He wasn't quite sure yet about sounding conversational, so his voice was a mix of forced cheerfulness and fear for his life.

Luckily, the other guy didn't seem willing to comment on it. When Tony denied responsibility, he just stared at his palms, closing and opening his fists.

“Look, um,” Tony tried carefully. “Like I was saying, I don't want to fight. I'm here looking for some sort of ice -a specific kind. If this is your territory or something, maybe I can make some payment-”

“This is Laufey's territory,” the stranger replied sternly. His crimson eyes moved to Tony's, his face grey in what was probably the equivalent of horrified paleness. Yet his voice was hard as he added, “and I am Laufey's son. I am to bring the head of any trespasser to my father. Such is our law.”

Laufey's son? Tony had never heard the Jötun king had any children -to be fair, he had had no idea the guy was still alive before today. It wasn't like there was a lot of news passing from one realm to the other; he had not met more than half a dozen Frost Giants in his life, and at least three of them had been dead.

That aside -what Tony did know about Laufey was that he was _huge._ His stature was remarkable even amongst his kind. He had heard it said that was the very reason why he had managed to rule for so long. They said he was tall as at least five Aesir men piled up on top of each other. He felt like asking the man in front of him how big his mother was, but suspected this might reignite his determination to sever his head from his body. Some things were universally considered rude, and he was still concerned he had not seen the full extent of his magic.

“Right. Well, I'm not looking forward to having my skull brought to your king. Is there any way I could persuade you to... not do that?”

“I'm amazed an Asgardian is able to negociate. I never heard your people knew the meaning of that word.”

“That's historically fair,” Tony admitted, raising an eyebrow, “but I'm not my king. I don't know how things are around here, either, but it's not like Odin asks his people for their opinion before he does things.”

“No,” the man surprised him, plainly answering: “Laufey does not, either.”

There was a small moment of silence, during which Tony had no idea what he should say. The Jötun's agressivity seemed to have gone down -at least temporarily. He eyed Tony, still holding his right hand in his left one, close to his chest.

“Does that hurt?” Tony couldn't help but ask, gesturing at the tightly clutched fingers. “That really wasn't me, you know. Did you -get burned instead?”

“Don't come closer,” the Jötun snapped. Tony stopped where he stood, fingers still locked around his sword's pommel. “No,” the answer finally, begrudgingly came. “It doesn't... hurt. But I do not understand.”

“Neither do I,” Tony promised with an awkward shrug. “So... Laufeyjarson. Is there any chance I can get what I came for? It's -ice that's gone through a few cycle of melting and refreezing before stabilizing? It usually looks pale green, like mint.” He paused. “Do you know what mint is? I don't think it grows here-”

“I know what it is,” came the impatient answer. Tony did not ask, though he wondered, if the Giant referred to the mint or to the Green Ice. “What do you want it for?”

“It's a little pet project I'm working on. Something to travel between Realms,” he went on as a sever look told him his first explanation wouldn't be enough. “I found there are some possible paths to exploit, but I need a ship capable of enduring the trip, and I need the ice for the ship.”

“Your people have the Bifröst for that.”

“Yeah, well. The Bifröst belongs to the royalty. It's not like most of us common folks get to use it as we please, you know what I mean?” Laufey's son stared. Tony grimaced. “Look, it would all be for my personal use. I'm not building it for Odin, or for anyone of his sort.”

“Do you speak so of your king because you think it will improve my opinion of you?”

“Eh, is it working?”

The Jötun did not smile. Tony took it on himself for thinking they were to the friendly banter bit already. He waited, still not ruling out the possibility that Laufey's son was going back to kicking his ass anytime soon. But after a few seconds, the giant shook his head and took a half step back -not leaving, Tony realised, but relaxing his stance.

“Loki,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“If you address me. I don't want it to be for my belonging to the King. My name is Loki.”

“Oh.” That was an unexpected turn.

“And I will help you get the ice you need. But you will help me in return, Asgardian.”

Tony stared. The Jötun -Loki- seemed serious enough. It looked like he was slowly recovering from his shock -and in its place, determination was slowly reinforcing his sharp features.

“And... what exactly would I be doing for you?” Tony asked, sensing without knowing why that he should probably be very careful.

“Regicide,” Loki grinned.

* * *

Loki of Jötunheim did not know he was meant to be Loki of Asgard. It was unsure what he would have thought of this revelation, had it been made to him. He was a clever young man with a natural desire for power, which made him perfectly suited for politics. He would certainly have seen all the ramifications of his being of the blood of the Allfather, and considered everyway in which he could use this new knowledge to change his fate.

But Loki of Jötunheim of Asgard, for all he was of calculations and considerations, was always twice as emotional -not that he would recognise it. His adoptive mother had named him for wildfire, and had been remarkably inspired in doing so. The runt of Laufey's tribe, pitifully small and perfectly useless to his betters, was as quick to turn to a rageful blaze as he was to die down into fragile embers. It was perfectly possible that the truth of his parentage would have filled him with hurt over the lost chance, the lies, the irony of his having lived his life off table scraps and wounded pride while he could have been the heir to all the Nine Realms.

Tony of Asgard did not have the power to give him this knowledge. Despite the thousand coincidences needed for their meeting, he remained entirely ignorant of it, for a while still. Perhaps it was better so; what he did learn on that day was enough to change his life. It did not cause a descent into madness, only gave an encouraging little push to the twisted mind he had grown to possess.

Aesirs liked to call the Frost Giants monsters, barbarians and brutes. It was an unfair assessment of a remarkable civilization: Jötnars possessed a remarkable culture and held to honorable values. Their music and their stories had once been admired throughout Yggdrasil for the raw, unique power they evoked, and their surviving in the hostile climate of Jötunheim had led to their possessing skills and traits unknown to the rest of the Nine Worlds.

But, yes, occasionnally, they could also appear to be bloodthirsty savages. To be fair, so could the Aesirs.

It remained that a giant killing another giant was forever a pariah, condemned to life as an outcast. Every decade passed since the end of the war had seen their numbers decreasing further. Life was more sacred today than it had ever been, which was saying much. Abandoned babes like Loki had once been never occurred anymore. Tribes knew to take care of their own more desperately than ever to avoid falling apart.

This was the only reason why Loki had survived so long. Laufey's angry shards of ice had always missed him by a few inches (anger and _almost-_ murder were understandable). Unfortunate accidents had always miraculously failed to kill him (nobody could blame the clan leader for an angry charging warhog). Being beaten half to death was a reasonable way to learn lessons (and beside, he was still half alive, wasn't he?). Jötuns were not any more impervious to hypocrisy than any of the other people of Yggdrasil. They had lines which were not to be crossed, and blindspots for anything happening before that line.

As for Farbauti, the clever skald had died many decades ago of a sickness (which perhaps could have been healed, except the storyteller was a bit too observant and too loud-spoken for Laufey's taste, and healing herbs were so very expensive and hard to find nowadays). Though of no official lineage, Loki had stayed in mourning for quite a time, and when Tony met him, he had no idea the golden crown the small Jötun wore had once been a prosthetic horn worn by a mother as he taught his son his craft

“Murder,” Tony, who was of Asgard, mostly, but who thought of himself more importantly as the bearer of crimes greater than himself, was ever hesitant to adding to that heavy charge. Still, he carefully voiced his doubts, intrigued by the bloodthirst the native showed for his clan leader: “I try not to kill people, unless I'm given good reasons for it.”

“Don't you have good reasons to want your ice?” Loki, of Asgard and of Jötunheim, of unwanted and of adopted, was, as far as he was concerned, just Loki. Politics could be a mean to an end; but they were not what inspired his demand. Loki of nowhere in particular was seeing to his own interests, having understood a long time ago he could not rely on others to do so.

“See, I was given the impression that Asgardians had killed a lot more giants than they needed to in the last war. I wouldn't want to worsen the numbers.”

“I'm asking for your help, not your service. You wouldn't deliver the final blow.”

Tony thought, looking at the runt prince. The way Loki spoke suggested it was a very reasonable deal, and Tony was struggling to remember that it probably wasn't. For a man who had greeted him with a knife to the face, and whom he had kneed in his most sensible parts, the small giant was really good at arguing.

“Right. Uh -can I maybe ask... Why you would want-”

“Deal for deal, Asgardian. If you demand answers of me, then you'd have to offer some in returns.”

“What would you want to know?” Tony asked, startled.

“How to travel between the realms, for example. You speak of paths?” The Jötun quirked a sharp black eyebrow, his smirk indicating he knew Tony wouldn't think his demand was purely innocent.

He was playing his game well, and Tony, too, was finding out that Jötuns were able to negociate. He breathed in. Finding the ice alone would have been doable, but now, he depended of Loki's good will. He had no doubt that the Jötun could still kick his ass, or at least give him a world of trouble, without even having to warn the rest of his people of an intruder's presence. If he didn't agree to work with him now, then Tony might not get his hand on green ice before the next Convergence.

But still -the last thing he wanted was to get tangled in a local war he knew nothing about. It was a recipe for disaster. Killing Laufey would not be without consequences, not for Jötunheim, but not for Tony, either. If the Allfather heard of Tony's travel and his meddling with foreign affairs, then he would probably be sorry he hadn't been burned to death by Loki. And even if it went smoothly, and Laufey died, and Tony went home -then he would be complicit in one more death.

And besides, deal or no deal, he was reluctant to just getting his ice and _leaving_. It was all he had wanted from this trip; now it was nagging at the back of his mind, the thought that if he went now, he might never get answers. Who the hell was this murder-happy sorcerer, willing to help a foreigner to fight his own leader? Why would a Jötun want to see the other worlds, knowing them to be unhabitable? Why had Loki's skin turned white when he had touched him -why had he looked so confused about it?

Maybe it was part of the plan, because he wanted to know all the more now that Loki had made it clear he wouldn't answer willingly.

“Right, right,” he said, taking a deep breath. He glanced up: the sky was darkening rapidly. “Well, can I at least have a bit of time to think about it? If you won't tell me why Laufey deserves to die, then I'll need to see how far I can involve myself, alright? I don't like killing people.”

“How odd from one of your kind,” Loki remarked once more, with inappropriate politeness.

“I think we can agree neither you nor I are perfect representation of our kind,” Tony replied, and was startled when Loki laughed.

“Maybe,” Loki agreed, taking a half-step back. Tony feared for an instant that he was going to leave, and that this was going to be it; but the Jötun shrugged his cape off one of his shoulders, and pointed a finger in the direction Tony had come from. “Your ship is over there, I saw it. I can give you three days to debate your morales. But I will stay with you, of course.”

“My ship isn't ready to last three days in Jötunheim. Neither am I, for that matter.”

“I didn't expect it any other way, Asgardian,” Loki agreed. “Luckily for you, I know the place. I can take care of everything.”

“Is this to build some kind of debt I'll have to repay you?”

“No. Well, yes,” Loki said after a thoughtful pause. “I suppose it's a little bit like that. But you won't find a better offer.”

“Right.” Tony tore his eyes from the deep blue sky and its threatening clouds. “Well, then, lead the way. Oh, and, Loki?”

They both seemed equally startled to hear the Jötun's name on Tony's tongue. Tony hid it his best, pretty happy to have caught him off guard in turn.

“My name's Tony. I'd shake your hand, but based on earlier, I don't know that you want that.”

“I know that I don't,” Loki replied, and Tony saw his hand nervously closing on itself before the cape covered it. The Jötun flashed him a smile full of teeth. “Come on, then, Tony the Merciful. You won't like the weather that's coming."

It's a fun story, mostly because it came so very close of being so big, and in the end it is not. Because in the ten thousands of thousands of life-threads tangled in a spiderweb around the Norns' hands, it seemed like the witch-sisters had been preparing a masterpiece, and then gotten distracted, and made a snowflake instead, odd and spectacular and forgotten on a shelf.

It's fun, because Tony didn't like the weather that came, but he liked what followed, most of it at least, and what he figured was the end result. It's fun too, because Loki started with nothing but revenge and destruction in his mind, but a whole lot of other colors of feelings sneaked in to change his state of mind.

It's fun, mostly because Loki was meant to be a prince, and Tony was meant to be his weapon dealer, and instead, Odin and Laufey and meant-to-be-abandoned Thor all soon struggled to contain the two outlaws, the two lovers, who infuriatingly jumped from realm to realm and adventure to adventure, unpredictable, dangerous -and seemingly coming out of nowhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Then they went on to take over the world. After having conquered Jötunheim as his, Loki showed up in front of Odin's throne and went, I'm sorry, I think you're in my seat, dude. He became the most powerful ruler ever known to Yggdrasil and Tony was the most spoiled inventor ever, period. 
> 
> As a quick note: the inconsistencies in the text regarding the use of Aesirs/Asgardians were included willingly, following the way Laufey referred to Thor as "Asgardian" in the movie. I believe the other characters also use that word instead of Ass/Aesir, but, I do what I want.


End file.
